Spirit of a Mystery
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: A boy finds himself in the middle of a mystery in his sleepy town. Even the spirit of Sherlock Holmes can't leave this mystery unsolved. The two must work together as one, corporeal or not. Complete!
1. A Beautiful Corpse

Have you ever had the feeling that you've done something before, even though you know that you never have? Did you ever have the feeling that you've lived a different life somewhere and sometime else? It's a feeling like deja vu, only more forceful, with a burning, almost fever-like intensity. Its like another soul is inside you, and you are sharing the same experiences. Have you ever had that feeling? I have.  
  
My name is Jack Christopher Holmes. Nothing really special about me, I guess. My friends, what little amount of friends I had, would constantly remind me that I shared a last name with the famous detective. I knew I did, but it didn't seem to make much difference to me. I mean, lots of people had that last name, right? Just a poor, orphaned, lonely, teenager named Jack Holmes. That's what I used to think, anyway. I used to think I was any old guy, just struggling to survive. Some people say that you're at your best when faced by a crisis. I suppose they're right.  
  
I guess I should start at the beginning. I remembered that it was cold that night. January 19th, if my memory is correct. The year was 1943. I was 17. Back then, I could have cared less about anyone, because the world could have cared less about me. My good for nothing tramp of a mother skipped off on my father and me when I was young, and he died of lung cancer the next year. No one wanted me. They shipped me off to an old home with a lot just like me: decrepit, sad forms of human beings. The times were well enough, but we lived in the backwaters of England, out past London in the countryside in a God-forsaken town, almost village-like. Prudence. It was a hell hole, forsaken by the eye of the Lord and of the government. It was as if we didn't exist. But it was the world to me.   
  
Anyway, as I was saying, on the deep cold of January 19th, snow cresting outside my window, as I lay prostrate on my feather bed, my life changed as I knew it. It all started innocently enough, as do most things. A boy, not much younger than me, approached my bed, his eyes at his feet. I did not meet his gaze, staring as the light from my window played on the drifting snowflakes. The boy shuffled closer, and I noticed a notebook in his hand and a pencil over his ear. His nose wiggled slightly, and for some reason, I knew a sneeze was coming.  
  
"Cover your nose," I said quietly. They were the first words I spoke to my acquaintance. He followed my instructions, putting his pale hand to his face, then he sneezed loudly, nearly shaking the dust from my bed. He sniffled slightly, rubbing his red nose, then finally brought his eyes up to my form. He smiled.  
  
"Hello," he said. I took my eyes from the window and looked the boy over. He looked to be about 14, if not 15. His hair was a mousy brown, and it was mussed up over the top of his head as if he had just awakened from a slumber. His eyes were red, probably from sickness and watering eyes. He had a slightly thin frame, but I could see that he was well built for his age, as if he spent most of his time outside. I cocked my head a I looked at him.  
  
"I don't believe we've met," I told him, "Are you new here?" He nodded vigorously, pointing to the bed across from mine.  
  
"I'm supposed to share a room with you," he said. He extended his left hand, instead of the one he had sneezed on. "My name's Johnny Watson." I took the proffered hand and shook it.  
  
"I'm Jack Holmes. Welcome to Hell," I told him, a smile creeping over my face. Watson laughed, and sniffled lightly again.  
  
"It is quite a place, isn't it, though? I don't think I've ever been in a house this old." Watson paused, his nostrils twitching, and he sneezed again.   
  
"Allergic to dust?" I asked. Watson's head shot up.  
  
"How did you know?" he asked. I opened my mouth to answer, only realize that I had none.  
  
"I have no idea." I hopped off my bed, brushing some of the dust from my father's old brown, button down longcoat. "How old are you, Watson?"  
  
"I just turned 14," he told me, absentmindedly flipping through the notebook he held in one hand. I turned my head to look at it.  
  
"Planning to be a journalist?"   
  
Watson's bright blue eyes stared up at me, as if suddenly afraid of something. He shut his notebook quickly.  
  
"I swear, Jack, if I believed in fortune-tellers and gypsies, I'd say you're one of them," he said apprehensively. I gave him an unsure look.  
  
"I'm no gypsy, Mr. Watson, though I must admit-" I quieted as someone shuffled by our room in slippered feet. I turned to see who would be about that time of night, but I only cause a glimpse of a lavender night robe. I shrugged, and, turning back to young John Watson, I was surprised to see him already abed, his pencil flying across the coveted notebook. He glanced up at me, as if still frightened by what had passed between us. I sighed loudly.  
  
"Here, Watson," I said, taking off my day shirt to climb into my nightwear. I turned to him, showing him my exposed chest. "Tell me, by looking at my person, what can you infer?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Watson asked, glancing up from his work. I spread my arms out to my sides, letting him take a full look.  
  
"When I saw that you wrote in columns, all I did was infer that you were planning to write for a newspaper. All I did was take the information necessary and applied it. Now," I said, my mouth turning up into a smirk, "what can you infer about me?" I saw Watson's eyes slide over me, then he looked back up to my face.  
  
"You have cigar burns on you arms," he said in a quiet tone. "Does that mean that someone you know smoke cigars?"  
  
"Excellent, Watson!" I cheered, reaching to where my robes were spread on my bed. I pulled the nightwear on over my head, ruffling my dark hair as I did. "My father was a chronic smoker, mostly fond of American tobacco. On the occasion, he would become angered with me, and apply his cigar to my arm." Watson winced visibly. He then pointed to my wrist.  
  
"You have stitches on your wrist. Whoever stitched you up was a pretty bad surgeon." It was my turn to give him an inquisitive look. His face flushed slightly, and he looked back to his notebook. "My father was a surgeon." There was a long awkward silence then, and I decided that was the best time to crawl into bed. I was close to turning off my lamp when I heard Watson's meek voice speak up.  
  
"How did you learn to do that, Jack?" he asked. I only smiled.  
  
"Elementary, my dear Watson." As I spoke those words, something back inside my head seemed to click, and I started. It was as if I had heard those words before... Somewhere. I felt as if I had said them at some other time, though I had no recollection of ever knowing another Watson. I shook the feeling away and clicked my light off with a single movement. All through the night, I could hear the faint scratching of my new acquaintance's pencil on paper. I was a light sleeper anyway, so when I heard the sound of Watson's pencil stop, I awoke slowly. I blinked a few times, and glanced at my quietly ticking watch. 5:00 in the morning. Close to breakfast time anyway. I sat up quietly, only to see Watson's face illuminated by a ray of light streaming in through our cracked door.  
  
"Jack," he whispered. I cringed. Only my father ever called me by my first name. I got out from under my covers and crept next to his bed.  
  
"Call me Holmes. Everyone does," I said quietly. I looked to where Watson's eyes were glued. He was staring out the door. I saw now what had him so transfixed. A hand was reaching through our door. It was low to the ground, as if the owner of it was crawling. I hopped form my position, and went to the door, opening it fully. I could hear Watson gasp.  
  
"Don't Holmes!" he cried. As soon as he called out, I pushed the door open. I gagged instantly. A woman, still clad in her white nightgown, was crawling pathetically toward my door. I noticed then the blood splattered all across her person. It was lathered all over her face, her torso and her ligaments. I recoiled violently, my back slamming against the door painfully. The round, frightened green eyes of the woman turned to me.  
  
"Jack," she whispered. Her bloody hand reached up. I tried furiously to back away, but I could move no further. My heart was hammering in my chest. I was terrified. Just as she was about to grasp my nightshirt, her hand trembled, and fell to the floor. Her lovely eyes closed, and she fell in a heap. She was dead.   
  
I shook all over. My knees finally gave out, and I slid to the floor, breathing heavily. I heard Watson scramble from his bed in a flurry of sheets.  
  
"Holmes! Are you-" He stopped short as he saw the woman at my feet. His hand gravitated to his mouth. Gradually, the sight of the woman grew less and less gruesome, as if I had seen something far worse, though I knew I had never. A frightened smirk appeared on my lips.  
  
"I thought... your father was... a surgeon," I said between heavy breaths. Watson was horrified. He shook violently. I took hold of his nightshirt and kept him where he was. "Watson," I told him, regaining composure, "Go get Annie. She's the woman who runs the house." I pulled myself to my feet, but Watson remained. "Go, Watson!" Still shaking, Watson took off down the hall. His reverberating cried rang in my ears as he called out for the master of the house. All the children were roused. I stared at the woman, lying in a pool of her own drying blood, with pity. So beautiful, yet so...  
  
"Dead!" Watson cried, pointing at the body. Both he and Annie had returned. Annie was clad in her flowered nightgown, her hair in braids. She was overweight, but her girth was largely outweighed by her kindness. She looked at the mess on the floor in front of me, then to me. I had put my hands on my hips, surveying the body. Her eyes fixed on me.  
  
"Holmes," she said, her voice full of anguish, "What happened?" I turned my eyes to her.  
  
"That's what I plan to find out." 


	2. A New Victim and A Trail to Follow

"Can you contact the police, Annie?" I asked, not taking my eyes from the body that lay in front of my door. Our caretaker shook her sad head, her braids dangling limply over her shoulders.   
  
"I've tried, Holmes, but the lines are down." I looked up sharply, suddenly apprehensive.  
  
"The storm isn't quite so bad as to knock out the phone lines..." I looked once again to the fallen body of only God-knew-who. I knelt down next to her, trying to avoid contact. "There is only one phone line entering this house. Did you check the wires, Annie?"  
  
"No... Why?" She asked, giving me a quizzical look. I shook my head.  
  
"Something tells me that it has been cut."  
  
"Why do you think that?"  
  
I paused. I didn't know. I honestly didn't know how I knew these things. It was almost like a voice in the back of my head, telling me things, whispering. Clear as a bell but silent as a whisper. I held my forehead in my hands. Watson took a step closer, extending his arm.   
  
"Holmes, are you all right?"  
  
"I'm fine," I said, summarily pushing away my fatigue and glancing up at my new friend. "If the police cannot come to our aid, I am afraid we are on our own. And, sadly, I think that our time is short. If this woman was indeed murdered, as I believe she was, then a murderer is still within these premises." Annie gave a start, and looked around her.  
  
"What?! What makes you think that the murderer is still here?"  
  
"The answer is simple," I told her, lifting the dead woman's hand from the floor, inspecting it. "The killer made no noise upon entering, therefore suggesting that they must know their way around the house, even perhaps having in their possession a key to one of the doors. Now, Watson and I were aroused when the woman tried to crawl into our room. She seems to have left a nicely defined trail to the location of the crime." I looked up past her body to see the trail of blood leading from three doors away from my room. "If you would follow me?" I asked, motioning for Annie to follow me.   
  
"Jack, I don't understand-" she began. I cut her off quickly.  
  
"Please, don't call me Jack." I walked into the room where the blood trail began, and switched on the overhead light. I cringed at what I saw. One of my fellow orphans lay slaughtered in her bed. Annie threw her hands up over her mouth.  
  
"Oh my God..." she whispered. Her voice wavered, tears welling in the pockets of her eyes. I averted my gaze to the floor, where blood had splattered in what must have been a magnificent spray of the liquid.  
  
"She was attacked in this room, along with Isabelle. I'm sorry, Annie." I had never been closely acquainted with young Isabelle Wright, but seeing her there, her eyes wide in fright and her blood upon her face, was almost too much for me. I got close to the floor, and ran my hand along what I believed to be the older woman's blood. I brought my fingers close to my face and inspected the sticky liquid. "It's safe to say that she was killed only a precious few minutes before Watson alerted me to her presence outside our door. If I am correct, Watson, you were up all night?" I turned to the doorway, where the frightened, mousy-haired boy stood, and he nearly jumped at the mention of his name.  
  
"Y-yes, I was awake. I can never sleep the first night in a new house. Bad habit, I guess." He clutched fast to his notebook, and I eyed it quickly. There it was again, that damned voice in the back of my head. But when I heard it mention Watson's name, I immediately tuned in.  
  
"Watson," I murmured, still staring at the notebook, "For some reason, I believe you should be jotting all of this down. You wouldn't mind terribly, would you?"  
  
"What? Why?"  
  
"Something tells me it may help you later." I gave him an encouraging nod. He shrugged lightly, and began scribbling furiously on his paper. I returned to where I had been inspecting the blood. "As I was saying, Watson would have noticed any person leaving that room and leaving, for the closest exit is down, past our room. Did you see or hear anyone, Watson?"  
  
"No, sir," he said quickly, his nose in his notebook.   
  
"So the killer had to have been in this room before our victims entered or came with them. And they obviously did not leave the house. Therefore, I take a not-so-wild guess when I surmise that the killer is still within the house." I stood and sighed loudly. All this knowledge, everything I was spouting... It felt like it was not of my own words. That disembodied voice I kept hearing in my head... Was that perhaps more than a strange hallucination? Whatever it was, it felt like it was not a part of my surroundings, or someone close to my ear whispering. It was more like it was me, and yet not me. Like someone inside of me. Quickly, I shook the notion from my head and strolled to the bed where Isabelle lay, quite dead.  
  
I looked her over quickly, scanning her wounds. Her neck was slit. It must have been performed before the murder of our nameless victim, for all of her blood had cooled and congealed. While it looked like the job had been done quickly, it had been done slovenly. The cut was jagged, more like a tear than a cut. The knife, if it was indeed a knife, had been a dull one. Slowly, I moved my hand to her eyes and closed her lids over her contracted pupils. I turned to Annie, who was trying to hold back the fact that she was crying. I wanted to comfort her, to cry with her. But that feeling, the same that came from the voice, told me that it was more important to find the felon and convict him.   
  
"Annie," I said softly, "I need you to take Isabelle's body and move it into the hall for me. I need to have the two bodies close to each other."  
  
"Please, Jack-"  
  
"Holmes," I said firmly.  
  
"Holmes, I don't think I can. She's so..." Her tears threatened to pour again. I wrestled with my emotions for another moment, then shut my eyes.  
  
"I think you can Annie. Think of how many lives could be in danger if we do not catch this felon. Every child here could fall under him. Do you want that, Annie?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then carry her body into the hall." I left the room, following the quickly drying blood trail back to the body. I could hear Annie go into Isabelle's room, and she emerged only a moment later, carrying the blood-encrusted girl in her large arms. Tears were streaming down her set face. She dared not set eyes on her precious package. Slowly, Isabelle was laid down next to the woman in the nightgown. One's eyes were closed in the eternal sleep, while the other was facedown on the hardwood floor. Carefully, I reached down and turned the latter over so that she, too, was facing upward. As I did, I saw the deadly wound. A sharp piece of glass was protruding from the woman's chest, just below her throat.   
  
'The murderer was trying to slit her throat,' the voice in the back of my head told me, clear as a bell, as if it were being pealed inside my very brain.   
  
"Whoever tried to kill this woman tried to get at her throat," I said aloud, "But she struggled against his grip, and he only succeeded in stabbing her through the chest.   
  
'A piece of the glass is missing,' the voice came again.  
  
"Perhaps a piece of the glass broke off in the murderer's hand," I mused. A grin broke over my face, almost unwillingly.  
  
'Excellent,' the voice said in a pleased manner. I stood again, looking at the tiny faces of the orphans staring out of their doors. I moved my body to block the sight of Isabelle from their view.  
  
"Annie, please get the children back. I don't want them to see."  
  
"Right, Holmes," Annie said, her voice wet with tears. She shooed the children back into their rooms. Watson, his pencil now stopped on his notebook, inched closer to me.  
  
"Holmes," he started weakly, "Everything you've been saying... All this about the murderer and all that... Were you inferring all of it? Because if you weren't, I'd say that it was you what did it, if I didn't know better."  
  
"I understand where you're coming from, Watson." I stared at the bodies for another moment, taking in all the injuries they sported. I set my arms akimbo, scanning them. "Would you mind fetching the sheet off my bed, Watson? I want to cover the bodies."  
  
"Why would you want to cover them?"  
  
"So when we've left them, no children will see the slaughter."  
  
"When we've left?"  
  
"We're going on a bit of a hunt, Watson. You and I are going after the murderer."  
  
Watson's eyes grew at the mention of a hunt. He dashed off, and returned quickly with my sheet in his hand and fully clothed. I could have laughed. The boy who seemed so frightened now wanted nothing more than to hunt down the killer of the two women. I looked at myself, still clad in my night robes, and I held up one finger.  
  
"I believe I shall dress myself as well. Get your notes ready as I get ready!" I told him as I disappeared into my room. I could hear Watson shuffling his papers as I pulled off my robes and slipped on my dark pants and white shirt. I buttoned the cuffs and pulled on my long coat just as Watson's voice emanated from the hall.  
  
"Are you quite finished in there, Holmes?" This time I did laugh. I pushed open the door, seeing that Watson had covered the bodies quite well. I turned down the collar of my coat and smiled.  
  
"Yes, Watson. Now, let's be off." I started, but then remembered Annie, who was probably on her way back now. "Watson, on a new sheet of paper, write a note to Annie explaining where we've gone and not to follow us." He nodded, and stuck his nose in the notebook again. I entered Isabelle's room, searching the floor. Only a second after Watson appeared in the room next to me did I find what I was looking for. A separate blood trail, comprised of tiny dots of blood. I pointed at it, a feeling not unlike pride swelling in my chest.  
  
"There is our man, Watson. Now, let us be off, before Annie gets back!" 


	3. Tracking A Murderer

"This is so very exciting!" Watson whispered as he followed behind me. We had located what we believed to be the murderer's blood trail and we were following it very closely. Watson was writing every detail he noticed in his notebook, his pencil scratching and jotting in his scrawled hand. I stooped low to the ground, inspecting the blood drops on the stained wooden floor before me.  
  
'From the radius of the drops,' the voice in my head said, 'the man we are looking for should be about six foot tall, possibly a bit shorter. He walked at a quickened pace.'  
  
"He's moving fast," I said to Watson, shoving myself from the ground. I turned to the boy, whose face was flushed in the heat of the moment. After only a short pause, he screwed his face up.  
  
"Well, if he's moving so quick, we best hurry to catch up, shouldn't we?" A smile spread on his face, and he stuck his pencil behind his ear. I was taking to like this boy with every new word he said. I clapped him on the shoulder, nodding.  
  
"Right you are, Watson. Now," I looked back to the drops of blood, searching them with my eyes. "He's wounded, so probably won't be able to put up much of a fight. Still, I would feel safer with a weapon of some sort. Have you a gun about you?" I asked.   
  
"I should hope not! Terrible things, guns!" Watson shuddered, and I sighed loudly.   
  
"Then get a stout piece of board, a small pipe, anything. We do not want to go up empty-handed with a felon. Besides, he has already killed an innocent. We need to take precaution." I looked around the hallway, then spotted the closest lavatory. I dashed inside and ripped the curtain that hung around the tub. The rod came tumbling down with it. It was adjustable, with two sections. I handed one to Watson and kept the other for myself. Feeling it was good enough for a spur-of-the-moment weapon, I signaled for Watson to follow me.  
  
The house was vast. It was a three-story, Victorian built house. Its passages wound here and there, and stairs seemed to spring up from nowhere, leading to a floor you didn't know was there. But once a body had lived there for a time, it got used to the old and dusty passageways. I heard my companion sniffle behind me, and a glass-shattering sneeze filled the hallway. I spun around, my finger to my lips.  
  
"Please try to contain yourself, Watson!" I hissed quietly. He wiped his nose on his sleeve unceremoniously and nodded. "We are on the trail of a murderer, and if he knows that we are coming, we shall lose all element of surprise! My entire plan weighs on that fact." I turned back to the now drying drops of blood, studying them closely as we snuck along the passage. Watson sniffled lightly a few times.  
  
"You've already formed a plan?" He asked.  
  
"Yes," I told him, seeing that the drops led into a dark stairwell. I felt an involuntary shudder pass through me. The passage led from the first floor, where we stood now, to the second, but it was one of the lesser-used paths. Most of the small children were afraid to travel up the winding stairs. But that was where the blood led, and that was where I had to follow. I was afraid, mostly from the childish ghost stories that had been passed down over the years. I felt a soft push in the small of my back, even though I knew that Watson was standing directly to my left.  
  
'There is nothing to be afraid of.' It was that voice inside my head.  
  
"Who are you?" I whispered, making Watson turn.  
  
'I am you,' it responded. 'And yet I am not you. It is more... that you are me. Yes, I think that would be accurate.' Now the damned voice was speaking in riddles. Again I asked who it was inside my head. I heard a light chuckle come from inside my brain. 'Why, you must have heard of me. I am Sherlock Holmes.'  
  
I ceased all movement completely. I even stopped breathing. All thought focused on the fact that had suddenly and violently reveled to me. If he was inside of me... was one with me... did that mean... I am Sherlock Holmes?  
  
"Holmes?" I felt a tug at my sleeve. Watson's eyebrows were upturned in concern. "Is there something wrong?" Would it be wise to divulge this information with Watson? No. I would not tell him. I would not tell anyone. I merely pulled the collar of my jacket up around my neck and stepped forward into the dark stairwell.  
  
"No, no, Watson," I murmured, stepping onto the first stair. "This passage just gives me the chills."  
  
"Why so?" He asked, taking out his notebook.  
  
"Well," I started, climbing the stair, "when I was young, one of the older boys loved to tell stories to spook the children. There was one he was very fond of telling. It involved this very house, and this very stair. He would say, in a very dark tone, that a Nazi Prince hid himself in this house before the War came. He hid himself in the closet beneath these stairs. He killed anything he could get his hands on that would feed him: rats, insects, and even children. Well, he was caught and killed, of course, but they say that his ghost still haunts this stair. They say that he still kills when he can find fresh meat. That's why you very seldom see children climbing this stair, Watson."  
  
From behind, I heard Watson's chuckle, and he made attempts to hold it in. A red blush rose to my face, and I was glad that it was too dim for my friend to see.  
  
"A Nazi Prince? Living in a stair closet? It's hard for me to imagine that you, of all people, believed that. I mean, is there even such a thing as a Nazi Prince?"  
  
"Oh, just leave it alone," I said, waving him off. Just as I said this, the stair beneath my foot squealed loudly. I stopped moving immediately. Watson skidded to a halt as well. We sat still as stone for at least two whole minutes, then felt it safe to continue. Watson hopped the squeaky stair when he came to it. When we arrived at the second floor landing, I was horrified to find that the blood trail came to a stop. There was no blood on the next flight of stairs or down the second floor passage. Watson peeked over my shoulder, and saw what I was staring at.  
  
"There's no more blood," he whispered. I furrowed my brows in thought.  
  
"I know, I know." I held my chin in my hand, pondering. "He didn't want to escape, or he would have stayed on the first floor. So, the question is, would he have strayed onto the second floor or fled on up to the third?"  
  
'Why don't you check for indentations in the carpet?' Sherlock Holmes asked. He seemed to have led me down the correct path thus far, so I knelt down next to the ground, running the tips of my fingers over the plush red carpet of the stairs. There were faint prints coming from the stairs we had traveled, and none heading for the second floor passage.   
  
"We head up, Watson," I whispered. "Prepare yourself. No one beds on the third floor. It's all storage. There is any number of hiding places for a murderer." I started to creep up the next flight of stairs, when I noticed that my compatriot was shaking like a leaf in the wind. "You do not have to follow if you don't deem it safe," I offered. He seemed to consider my preposition for a moment, then shook his head.  
  
"You asked me to write everything down, and by God, I won't let the adventure stop halfway through. I'm following, whether you would have me or not." As a show of this, he gripped his section of the bar I had handed him earlier. A smile fell on my face. For someone I had met but not ten hours ago, this fellow was more loyal than any family member I had ever had. I was glad to think of him as my friend. I nodded, and together, we made our way up the next set of stairs.  
  
It was getting darker and darker the further we ascended. I felt my palms begin to sweat as we neared the third floor landing. I knew why I had never traversed this section of the house often. The atmosphere was one perfect for a murder mystery. I then remembered that a murder mystery was exactly what I was tangled up in now. And I was so far into it, that there was no untangling myself at this point. I had to see it through as far as I could. As I pulled myself up onto the third floor landing, I was thrown into darkness.  
  
My eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness in a few moments, and I could make out the looming shapes of boxes and unused furniture about me. I heard Watson arrive on the landing, and I could see a dark outline of his hand moving to switch on the nearest lamp. I grabbed his hand before he could shed light on the surroundings.  
  
"Element of surprise," I muttered close to his ear. I heard his hair brush against his skin as he nodded. I turned to face the long corridor once again, and peered down into the darkness. The hall we were in was the main hall of the third floor, with smaller halls branching out of it. At the other end of the hall, I could see the outline of a snow-encrusted window. Miniscule moonlight filtered in, making it a trifle easier to see. I shimmied my way around the boxes and sheets, trying to make as little noise as possible. In an inauspicious move, my hip brushed a sheet that had been covering an old chair, and the sheet fell to the ground. A cloud of dust flew into the air, and Watson walked right into it. My heart went into my throat.  
  
"Watson, don't-"  
  
I was cut off as he took an accidental whiff of the dust cloud. In the next instant, a thundering sneeze exited his small frame. For a moment, the world seemed to freeze. I heard a shuffling from behind me, and I knew someone was coming for us.   
  
'Get him out of there!' Sherlock Holmes shouted from inside me. I reached out for Watson's overcoat. Before I could try to pull Watson out of harm's way, there was the glint of a metallic object in the moonlight, and Watson crumpled to the floor. I lifted the shower bar in front of my face just in time to block a blow from a silver candleholder. Behind the object that had knocked Watson unconscious was a sneering, invidious grin. Horror gripped my heart as I stared into the wild eyes of the murderer. In the pale moonlight, I could barely make out that it was a vile man who held the weapon against mine. A gruff laugh exited his bloodstained lips.  
  
"Well, Jack Holmes," he said in a husky voice, "I've been waiting for you."  
  
With a swift move, the man grabbed me by the throat and took Watson by the collar. He dragged us into the innards of the house, and my last flame of hope died. 


	4. Old Nemeses

I had all ready inferred that to struggle against this man's grip would be a folly. He had Watson by the collar of his shirt and was dragging him like a sack of potatoes. He had me 'round the neck, pulling me forcefully across the bumps in the carpet. It was hard to discern any features the man bore in the dim moonlight, other than his craggy features and his sunken eyes. Before I could get my bearings, the man kicked in a door and threw both Watson and I across the floor. A cloud of dust stirred as I slid across the unused floor, and the younger boy's body slumped down next to me. I heard the man close and latch the door behind him, and when he did, all light disappeared. There were no windows in this interior room, and all was dark and musty. The smell of dust filled my nostrils. Then came the sound of a match, and finally, a small oil lamp was lit. Our assailant set the lamp on the wooden side-table next to the door. I was only now able to see the man for what he really was.  
  
The shadows cast by the flickering light made hollows in his sallow, unshaven skin. His cheekbones were high and thin, covered by a thick layer of stubble, and his dark eyes were sunk far into their sockets. His hair, long and greasy, flowed down over his shoulders and stopped where his neck started. Then he smiled. It made the blood in my veins run as ice through me. His teeth were thin and sharp, but they did not look as if they had been filed down. It was more as if they were naturally sharp. And when he gave that hideous, murderous smile, I knew that we were next. He was going to kill Watson, and then he was going to kill me. To prove this point, his sunken eyes searched the room for any sort of weapon.  
  
"Jack Holmes," his raspy, dull voice called from far in his diaphragm. I nearly jumped. "Jack, Jack, Jack." I winced with every repetition of my name. "Dear old Jack," he said, laying special emphasis on the last word. Finally, my rage got the better of me.  
  
"Stop it!" I spat, feeling the heat of anger in my face and neck. "Only my father can call me Jack! Stop it!" The murderer stared at me, his eyes, deep in their holes, blinked slowly and carefully. Then after only a few moments of silence, his lips parted to reveal his sharpened teeth in a snarling laugh. I wanted to leap and tear his head off, but I heard a soft voice in the back of my head.  
  
'Restrain yourself,' Sherlock Holmes whispered. I balled my fists, and felt my fingernails bite into the flesh of my palm.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," the man snarled, constantly smiling his sick smile. "Is that better, Mr. Holmes?"  
  
'Do not fall to rage,' the man inside of me instructed.   
  
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to lessen my rage. The man made a deep bow, his shaggy hair falling down before him.  
  
"Richard P. Moriarty, at your service," he said. I felt as if a fire alarm had been struck inside of me. Bells clanged throughout my inside, and shook my whole frame. It felt like fingers were gripping my shoulders tensely. And, just like that, I knew him. The name Moriarty ran through me like blood. I knew him, and he knew me. But who was he?  
  
'He is my nemesis,' Sherlock Holmes growled from inside of me. 'He and I, the great brains of our time. He died first, and I followed a considerable time later. But do not underestimate him, whatever you do. Do not make the mistake that I almost so foolishly did.' He paused, and as he breathed, I breathed, and we were as one. 'Stall him. We shall take him out here. Stall... And I will devise a plan.'  
  
I had no other choice. My eyes flicked to where Watson lay, his breathing labored and his eyes closed tightly. Again, I turned to Moriarty, and I could feel the plan formulating in my mind.  
  
"Why did you kill Isabelle? And that woman... Who was she?"  
  
"I killed that twerp because she was in my way. And that woman..." He smiled, and walked closer to me. I scooted back, mostly recoiling in fear. His putrid breath was upon me, and his evil eyes glared at me invidiously. "Didn't you recognize her, Mr. Holmes? I would think you'd know your own mother." My breath caught in my throat. My mother? No, he was lying. My mother ran out on us a long time ago. She was a tramp! A no-good, lying, cheating, stealing- I stopped myself when I felt hot tears leaking from my eyes. I stunned myself into silence. I felt the warm tears start in the pockets of my eyes, and then tracked them as they ran down my cheeks and dropped off into nothingness. I was crying. The great Jack Holmes had been reduced to tears.  
  
But these were angry tears. They were tears that had been held behind cold eyes for too long. Tears that had gathered pain after pain, taking every blow. But not anymore. This man, this evil, gruesome shell of a man called Moriarty, had killed my mother. And he was proud. And, by God, that pride would be his downfall! I bit my bottom lip, trying to give more time to Sherlock Holmes to formulate a plan.  
  
"How... How did the two of you get into Isabelle's room?" I asked through the nearly blinding tears. Moriarty stroked his stubble-encrusted face thoughtfully, then raised a booted foot and set it down on Watson's back. A low moan exited my friend's mouth. I felt warm blood rush into my mouth as I bit into my lower lip to keep from lunging at the man. Without warning, his craggy hand reached out and seized me by the throat. I gasped for air, trying to claw desperately at his grip.  
  
"You think you're the only one that's special? Think you're the only one who hears things from them? I know about you, Mr. Holmes. I know who you really are." As he spoke, I could feel the world becoming hazy around me, and my head spun from lack of oxygen. "I found your mother with some man in a back alley. I killed him. And I told the woman that if she did not take me to her son, she would feel pain like the fires of the seven hells before she died. We climbed in that brat's window. I couldn't have her waking up on me, could I? So I killed her."  
  
"And ..." I coughed, "My mother?"  
  
"I suppose she had..." He paused, looking for the right words for dramatic effect, "a change of heart. She had time to think about what she was about to do to her dearest son. I killed her. And now, here we are. Just Holmes and Moriarty. As it was meant to be." I gasped again for air, and as I did, I heard the strong voice of the great detective in the back of my head.  
  
'There!' He cried, 'Behind you!' In the flash of an instant, my hand flew backwards and grabbed the first think it came into contact with. It was a cardboard box, one at the bottom of a stack of three. With the force from my blow, the boxes fell on top of us. I felt the grip around my neck fall away, and I quickly regained my composure. Again, I heard Holmes call to me. 'In that box! Hurry! The scabbard!' I dove into one of the boxes that had fallen and pulled out a long, intricately carved scabbard. I grasped it by the basket hilt and threw its shell away. The gleaming blue steel in my hands shimmered in the lamplight.   
  
With an unearthly roar, Moriarty emerged from the rubble. In his hand was a like scabbard. He threw it aside, leaving only the naked blade dancing inches from my face. From nowhere, I felt hands take mine... And yet there were none to be seen. A great smile spread over my features, but I knew that the smile was that of Sherlock Holmes. I felt myself losing control over my own body, and a soft voice comforted me.  
  
'Let me take it from here, my boy,' Holmes whispered. And suddenly, we had seemingly switched places. I could only watch myself, while Holmes moved what I had previously thought to be only my body. A loud clang of metal on metal resounded through the small room. Moriarty's face contorted, making him look even more sinister. What came next was the greatest surprise of all. It was my voice that I heard, but it was the words of Sherlock Holmes it uttered.  
  
"Good evening, Professor Moriarty. I believe the pleasure is mine to witness your downfall once more." Effortlessly, the blade whipped through the air and moved to strike at Moriarty's left shoulder. He blocked, but with slovenly form. I could tell that our friend Moriarty was not much of a swordfighter in either life.  
  
Again and again, our blade sliced through the thick air, colliding with a tang with Moriarty's blade. I could even hear Holmes chuckle slightly. By this time, he had driven his adversary up against the wooden door. He caught Moriarty's blade by the basket hilt, then smiled.  
  
"Now," he said to me, "is when the fight begins." With all our might, I felt Holmes kick the door out, hinges and all. Moriarty stumbled back, fumbling with his sword. He held it threateningly forward, and I saw a sick look in his eyes.  
  
"Our battle at the Falls was not yours to claim!" He bellowed. His voice echoed down the hall, and, more than likely, had caught someone's attention on the lower floors. Holmes swung his sword deftly and sliced off a piece off the shoulder of Moriarty's jacket.  
  
"Perhaps you have forgotten, then," Holmes said, stepping forward and lunging with his sword. It pierced through the man's abdomen. "I survived." Moriarty stumbled back, feeling the sword pull from his wound with a sickening squelch. I saw it then. The primal rage that comes before death. Hatred so pure that even death cannot calm its fire. Before either of us could react, Moriarty charged, his sword pointed at us. Holmes' reflexes were excellent, but my body was not as spry as his must have been. The sword ripped through our left shoulder, tearing at the flesh and muscle. I cried out in pain, and it was my voice... But I could also hear the voice of Sherlock Holmes, crying out. Holmes moved my hand up to my shoulder and grasped the wound.  
  
With another roar, Moriarty charged. This time, we jumped aside quickly, and he dashed past us. He rounded quicker than anticipated, and we barely had any margin of error. Holmes rained the sword to my face, guarding it against the sharp point that danced in front of it. I lashed out with my foot and kicked the man back. Holmes quickly regained footing and attacked the man. He parried. Lunge, parry, lunge, parry, duck, weave and thrust. We were locked in battle, the sounds of our swords alerting all in the house to our presence. At last, we were driving Moriarty backwards. The hallway he had taken us into was a dead end to a round window. I could see the fresh snow falling as the sun began to rise.  
  
"Jack!" Holmes cried. For the first time, hearing my name uttered by anyone else than my father did not bother me. In fact, as he called my name, I felt as if something had been set free inside me. Like white doves were fluttering in my chest. Holmes called again.  
  
'Yes?' I answered.  
  
"Take hold of the hilt!" He said. I reached out and grasped the hilt where he was. "Thrust!" As hard as I could muster, I threw the sword forward.   
  
I was suddenly back in control of myself. The sword, heavy in my untrained hands, clattered to the floor. The pain in my shoulder stung anew, and I fell to my knees. I then looked to the scene that lay before my eyes, the scene that I had created.  
  
The sun was rising on a new day, the tiny fingers of the rays caressing the soft earth. The snow sparkled on the ground beneath me. Glass shards crunched under my shoes. I stared down out of the broken window at the body of Moriarty splayed out on the snow below the window. His blood was quickly being absorbed by the white crystals beneath him, and it was becoming a lovely shade of pink. I could hear the pounding footsteps of Annie running up the stairs. Slowly, I raised my hand to my face and stared at it.  
  
'With that hand,' said Sherlock Holmes, 'you killed the murderer.' I shook my head.  
  
"You killed Moriarty. I just aided-"  
  
'When I told you to take hold of the sword, it was you and you alone that thrust him through that window. Now, I believe your friend Watson should be waking up about now. And I am quite sure he will be miffed about missing your great battle,' Holmes suggested. I smiled.  
  
"I'm not entirely sure he would believe it even if he saw it."  
  
I awaited the arrival of Annie, staring out at the carnage strewn across our front lawn.  
  
AN: Don't get up and leave just yet. I have one more chapter in store for Jack Holmes... 


	5. Epilogue

Two holes in the ground. One right next to the other. The snow and dirt was piled up beside the holes, and a single coffin lay in each. One was considerably smaller than the other. That one held little Isabelle Wright. The one in the hole next to her held my mother, Clara Holmes. We had all pooled what little money we had to give them both a decent sending-off. We could not afford real headstones, so we just used some of the rocks that lay strewn through the orphanage's yard. I found a large, round one to place at the head of my mother's grave. I had carved her name, birth and death dates into the solid rock after flattening it as best I could. I stood now in front of both graves, looking down at the brown wood of the coffins. A priest stood on my left, and a pale-faced Watson on my right. His dewy eyes were staring down as well, into the hole containing Isabelle. He looked up, and I saw his eyes full of tears.  
  
"This should not have happened," he said quietly. Seeing his usually hard face consumed by tears, I felt pricks of tears in my eyes as well. I nodded, looked solemnly down into their graves.  
  
"It was because of me that they both lay dead," I told him under my breath. Watson's eyes hung on me a moment more, then looked to Isabelle once again. The soft, sad voice of the priest beside me rung in the quiet yard.  
  
"Today, we send off the souls of Isabelle Wright and Clara Holmes. One, a mother, the other, a child. Both taken prematurely from their lives on this green earth. They go now to God..." His voice droned on, and I lost track of what he was saying. I could only watch numbly as they piled the dirt over the coffins, covering them forever in their tomb of earth. Then came the memories. My mother's bright laughter as she held me in her arms. Her green eyes giggling whenever she smiled. The sun in her hair as we sat at the breakfast nook. And her voice. It rang in my cold ears.  
  
"Be good, Jack," she had told me, running her thin fingers through my black hair. "Be good." Those were the words she spoke as she left us forever. My eyes clouded over with tears, and I felt their heat running down my cold face. The final patch of earth was smoothed down over my mother's grave. I saw Annie's large face, overwhelmed with sadness, trying to comfort me. Her thick hand rested on my shoulder. Her watery blue eyes gazed down at me.  
  
"Thank you," she said in an undertone. With that, she and the children filed away. The priest nodded toward me, and went on his way. It was only Watson and I left. I wrapped my arms around me in attempts to keep warm, and it was then that I felt Watson's hand where Annie's had been. I looked up to see his brown eyes staring quietly in a concerned manner. I quickly wiped my face clean of tears and sniffled lightly.  
  
"Y-yes, Watson?" I asked, my voice wavering with sadness. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and closed his mouth again. We sat there for minutes on end, staring at the fresh graves. After a bit, Watson decided to change the subject.  
  
"I still can't believe I slept through the whole battle," he said quietly. For the first time in days, I saw him smile. "To think that I missed out on such a writing experience. It must have been fabulous."  
  
"It was painful," I muttered, feeling the thick bandage that lay over my left shoulder. I sighed softly, and Watson withdrew his hand. His eyes suddenly became harder.  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Holmes," he said. I shook my head.  
  
"If that madman Moriarty hadn't been after me, neither of them would have come to harm. Isabelle would still be laughing and playing in the sun. My mother..." I trailed off and hung my head so my chin brushed against my chest. It felt as if something was stirring in the back of my mind.  
  
'If there is one to hate, Jack, let it be me and not yourself,' Holmes said. I shook my head sadly, and felt more tears come. I pulled my breath in quickly, and looked behind me to the orphanage where the others had returned to. I saw the boarded-up window I had provoked Moriarty to plunge through during our encounter. I wiped my tears away again, and spoke to Holmes out loud.  
  
"I hate no one," I said. Watson cocked his head, and I turned to him. I tried to form a smile as I spoke to him. "Do you still wish to hear my story?" He nodded, smiling widely.  
  
"Very much so."  
  
"Then follow me... And bring that notebook of yours."  
  
----------  
  
"And, with a flash of silver, Watson crumbled, and fell to the floor!"  
  
"Oh, no!"  
  
"What happened next?"  
  
"This is so exciting!"  
  
"Hush, children," Annie said sternly. But her face was soft and kind. She nodded toward me so I could continue. I stood in front of the fireplace in the main hall. All the children of the orphanage sat around me in a semi-circle, their eager eyes staring up at me in awe. I was relating my story, partially for their entertainment, but mostly so Watson could pick up the fine details he had missed while unconscious. At this point in the narrative, I lowered my voice ominously. The children giggled lightly.  
  
"I had no chance if I struggled against the murderer. He would have chopped me to little tiny pieces!"  
  
The children gasped loudly.  
  
"He took us into an empty room, when-"  
  
I cut myself short. Should I mention Sherlock Holmes? I glanced at Watson, whose pencil stood ready to record anything that escaped my mouth. These children's eyes peering up at me attentively. Even in a story, it would sound preposterous. I shook the notion from my head and continued.  
  
"He told me everything. He told me how he snuck in with help from the strange woman. He told me that she had been my very own mother, and I had not even known it!"  
  
"She was your Mommy?" Asked one tiny little girl named Mary. I smiled sadly down at her.  
  
"Yes, dear, she was my mother. Upon hearing this, I flew into a blind rage. I grabbed what was closest to me: an old sword. He picked up one of his own." I raised my arms up in the air to add dramatic effect. "What a battle! Our swords clashed, the steel bit! I stuck him like a pig, but it only made things worse!"  
  
"No!"  
  
"Did you get hurt?"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Well," I continued, choosing my words very carefully, "He grew so angry that he cut my shoulder because I could not move fast enough." I peeled back the neck of my shirt to show the children the bandage. They gasped, "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed. I replaced my shirt, and struck a dramatic pose. "I drove the fiend back with my sword, had him bent to my will. I would have spared his life if he had not been so evil. So," I made a violent shoving gesture with my hands, "I pushed him out the window!"  
  
"Ohh!!"  
  
"Wow!"  
  
"Really? Did he die?"  
  
"Yes, he died. He won't bother you anymore," I reassured them. A smattering round of applause passed through the throng of children. Annie stepped amongst them with a broom in hand.  
  
"Now, up to bed, you scamps! It's far past your bedtime anyhow!" She shooed the little ones to bed, and smiled widely at me. "I thank you for not including every bloody detail," she told me. I nodded civilly.   
  
"Not a problem in the slightest," I said with a smile. Watson walked over from where he sat and showed me his notebook.  
  
"You may have to tell me everything you left out for the children, if I am to publish this." He glanced up, and I nodded haltingly. I still was unsure about what I should withhold from Watson. He did, after all, choose to follow me up those stairs. I turned uneasily to Annie and jerked my head toward my room.  
  
"I believe I shall be off to bed myself."  
  
"Now, wait, Jack," she called. I blinked a few times, and she quickly added, "I mean Holmes. I need to talk to you." I stopped. She placed both hands on both of my shoulders. I winced slightly, but tried not to show pain. "You're turning 18 in a month or two, aren't you?" She asked quietly.  
  
"Yes," I answered solemnly. "March 12th."  
  
"That means... I can't keep you here after that birthday. You know that, don't you?" I felt a lump forming in my throat, and I forced it down.  
  
"I know, Annie."  
  
"Do... Do you know where you're going?"  
  
I paused, and my eyes fell to Watson. His knuckles were white as they clutched his flimsy notebook. A smile tugged at the corners of my lips, and I returned my eyes to Annie.  
  
"I have an idea of what I may do."  
  
She smiled again. "Good," she whispered, gripping my shoulders with care. "Go off to bed now." She looked to Watson. "You too, little scamp, or I'll take to your hide with a broom." Watson nearly jumped from his spot and ran to catch up with me as I walked down the hall. I snickered silently.  
  
"She doesn't mean it," I told him. "She's too soft to smack a child, no matter how stubborn." I reached our room first, and I paused to stare at the floor where my mother had lain just before death. I turned the knob to our door and entered, breathing in the familiar air of the musty old room. Watson slipped on his sleepwear and lay down in the bed across the room from mine. He tapped the page with his pencil, then looked up from his paper as I slipped on my nightshirt. I turned to him.  
  
"You know, Watson, I've been thinking," I said. "About what I told Annie: It was true. I have thought about what I am going to do once I leave this place."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I have to ask you something first," I told him. He seemed a bit surprised.  
  
"Well, go ahead, I guess."  
  
"Did you enjoy working with me? Searching out the vile fiend and capturing all the facts in your journal?"  
  
"Well, yes! It was incredibly exhilarating! A most enjoyable experience!" He paused, putting the pencil to his lips. "Well, save the bit about being knocked unconscious. I suppose that wasn't at all enjoyable." I chuckled, then leaned close.  
  
"The reason I ask is," I said quietly, "I was planning to leave the day after my birthday and set out to London. I want... well... I want to do that sort of thing professionally." Watson gave me an odd look.  
  
"You mean... A detective?"  
  
"Yes! Just the word I was searching for!"  
  
"Well... Why ask me?"  
  
"I..." I looked down for a moment, then looked pleadingly at my friend, "I would want you to come with me. To catalogue our adventures and cases..." There was a silence between us, and I thought for a moment that he would say no. Then a smile broke over his face.  
  
"It would be my pleasure, Holmes."  
  
He stuck his hand out, and I took it. We shook on it. I smiled, and I could vaguely hear Sherlock Holmes mumble something along the line of 'Excellent.'   
  
"Just think of the headlines! Jack Holmes and Johnny Watson aprehend-"  
  
"Oh, no," Watson cried. I halted immediately. He blushed lightly. "Jonathan is my middle name. I just think it sounds more appealing than William Watson." I gave him a small wink.  
  
"Johnny Watson it is." I moved back to my bed and was about to climb in when I heard Watson blurt out something.  
  
"I... I have a question, Holmes," he said in a hushed voice. I pushed myself under the covers with a slight rustle.  
  
"Ask away, Watson," I permitted him with a wave of my hand. He chewed on the end of his pencil nervously, then spat his question out quickly.  
  
"Have you ever heard... some one talking inside of your head?" He asked. The rest of his sentence was almost too fast to comprehend. "Sometimes I hear someone in the back of my head, like he's telling me what to do, or giving me advice. He-" Watson cut himself off, as if suddenly embarrassed, and began to write furiously. His face was a deep, vivid red. I smiled.  
  
"Watson," I murmured lowly, "if you only knew the half of it."  
  
With that, I reached over and switched my lamp off. For the first time since I had met him, Watson kept his light on the entire night.  
  
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AN: Well, it's done! I have finally finished one of my stories! Go me! Err... Anyway, I wanted to take this time to really thank everyone who read this story,even those that didn't review. Though, those reviews really motivated me to stay on the ball and keep this updated. Thanks especially to everyone who reviewed!  
  
Now, there have been at least two people who asked me if there will be any kind of sequel... That's really up to you guys. If you feel that this needs to continue, I'll keep it going. That's all there is to it. Just... Let me know! Thanks again! 


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